


Heartbeat

by DisplacedKey



Series: Diarmute Week 2020 [1]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23269993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisplacedKey/pseuds/DisplacedKey
Summary: Diarmuid goes back. The Mute is all he has now.
Series: Diarmute Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673284
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Heartbeat

Frigid water drags at Diarmuid’s habit as he wades through the water, his boots slipping on wet sand. The waves push and pull, trying to push him off balance, but Diarmuid heads forward as steadily as he can. His eyes never leave his destination: a crumpled form on the beach.

The ferryman shouts at him to _come back, it’s not safe, stop being foolish,_ but Diarmuid ignores him. There isn’t a question of going back; Diarmuid is not going to stand by and watch as another person he loves dies.

 _Please, God,_ he prays as his waterlogged boots meet the beach. _Please, have mercy._

 _Right,_ a bitter voice inside him sneers. _Because God has been so merciful as of late._

Diarmuid flinches at the callous thought and stumbles forward, falling to his knees beside the Mute. Diarmuid gently rolls him onto his back and swallows at the sight of the arrow jutting out of his stomach. Brother Ciarán’s screams ring in Diarmuid’s ears for a moment before he jerks himself back to the present. He lays his head against the Mute’s chest and holds his breath, listening.

 _Please, God,_ he prays, eyes prickling. _Please, please, please…_

For a moment, there is nothing. In that moment, Diarmuid knows exactly why one might fall to their knees and curse God.

Then, faintly, a heartbeat.

Hope rips through Diarmuid’s chest almost as violently as grief, leaving him gasping. “He’s alive,” he whispers. Then, louder, “He’s alive! You’re—you’re alive! Oh, _a cara, a chroí,_ I’m here, please stay with me.”

Diarmuid slips his hands into the Mute’s and squeezes. The Mute’s fingers twitch, just barely, in response. Splashing signals the ferryman’s arrival on the beach. Diarmuid turns around to see him standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the aftermath of the battle; strewn cargo, bodies, and blood. Diarmuid swallows. “He’s alive,” he says. His voice is scratchy at the edges from Geraldus’s attack.

“What?”

“He’s alive,” Diarmuid repeats.

The ferryman’s eyes turn to the Mute, and he grimaces. “For now.”

“Do you know where I can find a healer?”

“Boy, he won’t—”

“He needs a healer,” Diarmuid says, tightening his grip on the Mute’s hand.

“He won’t make it,” the ferryman says. “If he’s alive now—”

“He is!”

“Then he’s hanging by a thread.” The ferryman’s voice is sharp, his words harsh. “Even if he survived the trip to the healer, what are the odds he survives whatever the healer does to him?”

“Do you know about a healer or not?” Diarmuid says, lifting his chin.

The ferryman rubs his forehead and sighs. “Those soldiers will be back. How do you expect to escape and drag him beside you at the same time?”

_“How far will we get with the reliquary on our backs?”_

Diarmuid shakes Rua’s voice away and sets his jaw. “I’m not leaving him.”

The ferryman throws up his hands and curses. “Christ, fine! Get him onto the boat.”

Together they haul the Mute’s limp body onto the boat. Diarmuid grabs the oars and they pull away from the shore. Diarmuid keeps his eyes on the Mute’s face, trying to memorize every detail.

The odds are stacked high against them, he knows that. They have no food, money, or supplies; a death sentence still hangs over their heads, as Lord de Merville will want revenge for his son’s death; the Mute is badly wounded and Diarmuid knows nothing about the dangerous world they’re heading into. But the Mute is alive and they are together, and, despite everything they have suffered, Diarmuid has faith that when they are together, they will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> a cara = my friend  
> a chroi = my heart  
> ====  
> My first entry for @pilgrimagesource's Diarmute Week. The prompt: Faith and Doubt.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at https://iwillcarryit.tumblr.com/


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